two

sarina

Offer Bigfoot A Quickie Behind the Dumpster

One Month Ago

“L et me tell you something, Noland,” I say to the middle-aged bartender, drying a glass with his dishtowel. “I’ve dealt with my share of bridezillas, but this one was a particular type of evil. Like the demon spawn of Chucky and Miley Cyrus, circa 2013.”

Noland chuckles, setting the glass on a rack before reaching for another to dry. “Sounds like you came to the right place for a drink, then.”

“Or five,” I retort, holding up my second gin and tonic before taking another sip. As the alcohol rolls down my insides, I replay the events of the day in my head.

I’d arrived at this small town in the middle of Colorado to style hair for a bridal party early this morning. It was supposed to be a simple job, a way to indulge in my side hobby.

You see, aside from owning our salon together, my sister, best friend, and I also had hobbies we cultivated beyond it. Piper, for instance, had an up-and-coming bunny breeding business. Nisha, on the other hand, was a martial arts instructor.

My sister was a study in contradictions—a quiet and focused business owner by day and a badass taekwondo black belt by night. To make things even more enigmatic, when she wasn’t breaking boards or oozing confidence through every pore, she spent her free time knitting beanies and scarves.

And me? I moonlighted as a stylist for fancy events.

It was something I’d gotten into during college as a way of diversifying my ramen-every-night diet, but I enjoyed it, too. And not to toot my own horn or anything, but I was pretty damn good at it.

Unfortunately, this particular bride—the reason I was in this one-horse town—had turned out to be a living, breathing nightmare.

First, she’d berated me for not liking the way her hair had turned out, and then had thrown–-yes, thrown! —her check in my face.

Mind you, I’d tried to deter her from the style she’d insisted on, telling her, in not so many words, that it would make her look like a poodle was humping her head. But she’d refused to listen. And then, she’d gone on to call me a “dumb bitch,” along with other choice words, some of which I think she’d invented on the spot just for the occasion.

Her words had cut like knives, but I’d done what any self-respecting stylist would do. I’d thrown her check right back in her face and stormed out of her bridal suite with an exit that would make telenovela stars slow-clap in appreciation.

Okay, so I’d also slipped on my ass on the way out and snapped my heel, along with the last of my dignity, channeling my inner Jennifer Lawrence at every award show she’s ever attended. But hey, at least I was committed to the dramatic flair!

A bruised ass, ego, and a quick trip to the local general store—which also served as the town’s diner, laundromat, and only shoe emporium–-left me with a limited selection of footwear. And by limited, I mean one. And by one, I mean men’s Sasquatch house slippers. Because nothing says “I’ve got my shit together” quite like footwear that leaves a trail of coarse fur in its wake.

So, here I am, at this tiny small-town bar, where the smell of stale beer and greasy food wafts off the walls like air freshener, my feet snuggled inside Hagrid’s jockstraps, nursing my second gin and tonic.

But at least I could offer BigFoot a quickie behind the dumpster if he comes through the door. I get the feeling he’d be into me.

I’m just about to ask Noland for mustard to dip my fries in when I decide to forego it and find the kind I like in my purse. Rummaging through it, I find a packet of spicy mustard at the bottom.

I always have a few— okay, twenty —packets of mustard in my purse at any given time. So what? It isn’t a crime. Well, maybe taking handfuls of them from the local sandwich shop near our salons is, but it certainly isn’t a big crime. I’ve seen worse.

Like the custom lime-green Cybertruck with the orange thunderbolt on both sides my ex-husband just purchased.

Purchased!

As in, he paid to have an already weird-ass looking car look . . . worse!

I’m just about to dip my fry into the mustard and bring it to my lips when the bar doors fly open and a man strolls in, dressed in a rumpled tuxedo, a tie that hangs around his neck like a defeated snake, and sporting disheveled dirty blond hair.

You know the kind of disheveled I’m talking about. The kind he likely woke up with, the same one that would take most men hours and several bottles of mousse to perfect. The kind that only manages to make this man look more attractive when he’s clearly not trying. The kind that has my ovaries awaken from their long slumber and take interest.

Given the state of him, he looks like he’d just gone head-to-head with a tornado and lost, but damn, it takes nothing away from his attractiveness. He’s like a Greek god who’s decided to slum it with us mortals for a night.

I tear my eyes away, ready to dip my fry into the mustard again, when Hot Hades takes a seat next to me, garnering raised brows from a couple of patrons around me. The air shifts and I catch the subtlest notes of something sweet and refined—completely in contrast with this bar—but I can’t quite place what it is.

Even Noland’s eyes widen in surprise at the stranger, but he schools his expression before sauntering over to get his drink order.

I’m tempted to ask Noland who the newcomer is while he makes his drink, given I feel like I’m the only one who doesn’t recognize him, but I decide against it. Not with the dude sitting right next to me.

Instead, I quietly watch while Noland serves the man his whiskey and then goes back to drying more dishes. And while Noland has managed to pry his eyes off him, mine can’t seem to get unglued, as if they’ve just found a new flavor of mustard.

Being in the salon business for the rich, famous, and powerful, I’m accustomed to seeing beautiful men. But this man . . .? There’s something so unexpectedly magnetizing about him. Something I want to look away from, but something that keeps pulling me right back.

He isn’t just beautiful—not in the traditional sense, at least—he’s ruggedly handsome. A little rough around the edges, like he isn’t trying to be anything. Hell, he isn’t trying at all. He just . . . is.

And right when he’s about to take the first sip of his drink, a couple of starry-eyed patrons with hopeful grins approach him, asking for photographs. They look so star-struck, I swear I see one of them bow, as if he’s addressing the King of England.

Huh.

The guy does seem vaguely familiar. But who is he?

Is he some sort of local hero or something?

What even happens in a small town like this? Did he win this year’s cowpie bingo? What even is cowpie bingo? I make a mental note to Google it later.

The man reluctantly gets off his barstool, obliging his fans while looking at their camera with a half-hearted smile. It’s then that I notice them. His eyes, I mean.

Hazel, like sun-bathed autumn leaves. Rich and warm enough to lose yourself in.

It’s actually then that I notice all of him.

Plush pink lips surrounded by a well-groomed dark beard on a strong jaw, giving him that rugged charm I realize I really like. His hair, though a tousled mess, only makes me want to run my fingers through it, if only to see if it’s as soft and thick as it looks. The way it curls over the collar of his shirt is particularly captivating, making my toes curl inside my hairy Chewbacca balls.

He turns back to the bar, a somber and defeated look etched over his features, but I continue to ogle him. Clearly, my slippers—and the fact that I no longer have any pride left to lose—have given me courage I’ve never had. If only I’d had these babies all my life. Imagine the goals I would have crushed!

I shamelessly watch as he lifts his glass to his lips. His hands are large and strong, but it’s his long fingers, wrapped firmly around his glass, I find myself fixated on. There’s something almost commanding about the way they move, like they possess the power to make anyone or anything do their bidding. I can’t help but wonder what they’d look like wrapped around my waist, my thighs . . .

My throat.

My gaze travels down his broad shoulders, nestled under his unkempt but fitted tuxedo. Even through the thick fabric, I can tell he’s all man—muscular and well-built.

Way better than BigFoot.

“Ever wish you could be someone else for just a night?” The gorgeous stranger’s voice startles me out of my thoughts.

Shit. Did he notice me leering at him?

Uh, probably, dumbass! You only watched him with all the subtlety of a rhino in heat!

My lips part to say something—anything!—but somehow, it takes my voice a full ten seconds to find its way out. I try to hide my slippers behind the legs of my stool, but it only makes me look like I’m trying to hump the furniture. It’s not a good look.

“I . . . yeah, I have.” The words feel heavy on their way out as guilt roils inside me.

I’m a single mom of the most incredible, thoughtful, and intelligent little boy—a kid who has taught me more in his short seven years than I’ve learned on my own in thirty. I’ve been running a thriving business with my sister and best friend. And I have a wonderful and supportive dad, who literally moved from Boston to be close to me, my sister, and Rome. There’s no reason for me to wish to be someone else, not even for a night.

But somehow, the stranger’s question stirred something in me . . .

Somehow, in the span of the few moments between when my mouth opened and my voice answered, I imagined a life without a narcissistic ex-husband who constantly made me second-guess my parenting. A life where I hadn’t been scorned by men who’d promised to be by my side through thick and thin, only to have found someone else when I wasn’t looking. And a life where I could walk out in public without hiding myself under a cake of makeup and not be stared at as if I’d landed from another planet.

The thought of being someone else, even for one night, in a town I never planned to visit again, with a stranger I planned never to see again feels . . . intoxicating.

“So . . .” His golden-hued eyes meet mine, and it’s then that I notice the faint ring of silver surrounding his irises—bloodshot and sunken in from whatever his day put him through.

It’s then that they dip to my feet.

My cheeks flush, right along with the tips of my ears—a common occurrence when I’m either nervous, embarrassed, or gassy. Currently, I’m two of the three, though it’s anyone’s guess as to which ones.

I don’t dignify the subtle smile on his face with a response as he gazes down at my feet, but I address him nonetheless. “So . . .?”

His eyes meet mine again, and even though there’s amusement in them now, there’s no denying the hum of tension strumming between us, either. Like a live wire, dangerous and thrilling all at once. Something I shouldn’t touch, but something I so want to.

“Who would you like to be tonight?”

I lick my lips slowly, deliberately tasting the leftover salt from the fries and the sweet tang of the sauce I’d dipped them in. The flavor lingers on my tongue as I contemplate his question.

“Rina.” The name rolls off my tongue easily, given it’s what a few of my close family and friends call me. A small morsel of truth in what feels like will be a night of fabrications. “Rina Spicymustard. I’m a flight attendant.”

Okay, so maybe the last name is a bit on the nose. But hey, I’m nothing if not loyal to the things and people I love! And if loving spicy mustard is wrong, well, I don’t want to be right.

Plus, Spicymustard sounds way better than Tangylovetunnel, which was my backup option.

The stranger nods, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he flicks a glance at my fries and mustard. And though that smile is barely there, it transforms his face, softening it while hinting at a playfulness beneath his rugged exterior.

Then he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a wallet that’s surely seen better days. As he opens it, I glimpse enough cash to purchase the Burj Khalifa.

Who carries that much cash in their wallet?

Who is this man?

But as he thumbs through the bills, I notice something slip out and fall, landing on the floor near the leg of his stool. My fingers itch to reach for it, but before I can point it out or pick it up, Hot Hades raises a hand to flag down the bartender. “For me and the lady.”

Him and the lady?

I look around to see who he’s talking about before realizing it’s me.

My brow rises as I try to catch up with what’s happening here.

Why is he paying for my drinks? And why is he getting off his barstool and looking at me like he’s forming plans?

Plans that scream trouble.

The kind of trouble that has me swallowing audibly. The kind of trouble that makes me want to run the other way, squeaky fuck-me shoes and all, while also keeping me rooted to my spot, waiting for his next move.

Taking a step forward so he’s standing only inches from me, he reaches out to shake my hand. His proximity is overwhelming. His cologne, a mix of something earthy and sweet that I still can’t pinpoint, is all too dangerous.

“Well, Rina Spicymustard ,” he says, his voice is soft and warm, with just the right amount of predatory as it slithers down to my core. “I’m Troy, and I’m a chef.”

My body heats, and the sensation of his palm around mine sends a shiver down my spine. I feel a tremor in my fingers as I squeeze his hand back, and though I try to control my outward reaction, the pulse at my throat betrays my effort. Troy seems to notice, liking my response, as a smile lifts the corners of his mouth ever so slightly.

Good God, Sarina, get a hold of your damn self! Sling back a packet of mustard or something, and snap out of it!

I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. Looking up at him, I’m again taken aback by how handsome he is, even in—or maybe because of—his disheveled state.

“It’s great to meet you, Troy the chef,” I manage, my voice slightly shakier than I’d like. “But it’s only fair you give me your last name, too, since I gave you mine.”

“Uh . . . my last name?” He fumbles for a response, his confident demeanor slipping momentarily.

It’s kind of endearing, actually, watching his mysterious facade crack, telling me he doesn’t do this often. That he’s not the type of guy who charms women with these types of games, only to move on to the next. Which, for inexplicable reasons, makes him even more attractive.

“Uh huh.” I nod, smiling broader. “Your last name. You know, the part of your name that comes after your first? The one that alludes to your lineage.”

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, and I swear to the pools of mustard I worship daily, I almost start panting. The action is so simple, yet so sensual, that it takes everything in me to not reach out and retrace those lips with my fingertips. And damn it, he notices again—my eyes locked on his mouth like I’m contemplating all the things I want it to do to me.

His eyes darken, the flicker of hunger unmistakable as they trail over me. “Is that what it alludes to, Rina Spicymustard? Your lineage?”

The way he says my made-up name, rolling it around on his tongue, makes heat pour low in my belly. Honestly, this conversation should not be lusty or sensual. We’re talking about made up last names, for crying out loud! But for reasons I can’t explain, electricity spikes between us with every word.

I purse my lips, squaring my shoulders and double down on my response, even as my heart tumbles around in my chest. “It sure does. Now, will you be giving me your family name, or shall I come up with something myself?”

This time Troy actually smiles, even chuckles, and though I owe him nothing, I find myself happy to have put that smile on his face. “How about you come up with something for me, then?” He leans in closer, his breath fanning my face, and I fist my hands, keeping them from reaching out to pull him to my lips. “Give me a fitting family name like yours, Ms. Spicymustard .”

I can’t even help the giggle that escapes my lips. It’s girly, flirty, and so unlike the way I am around men. But he’s unlike any other man I’ve met.

“Hmm . . .” I think out loud, tapping my finger against my lips and bringing Troy’s attention to them. “Chef Teriyaki might be fitting.”

He nods thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving mine. “It’s certainly strong. I can see a great lineage being formed under that family name.”

I laugh before my eyes find the forgotten item that had dropped near his stool. I glide off mine, my body brushing against his as I bend to pick up the dropped item. The brief contact, mixed with Troy’s low groan, has my nipples stiffening to peaks inside my dress, and I’m all too aware of his gaze on me.

There’s mischief in my eyes as I slide the foil packet into his hand, and when he looks down at it, I think a little part of me bursts open at the sight of the pink on his cheeks. Has there ever been a time I’ve found a man both gorgeous and adorable? If not, this marks the first.

I lean in and whisper into his ear, “I might have found you a better last name, chef.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” he asks, his voice husky and strained.

I smile, my cheeks heating. “ Trojan . Troy Trojan.”

I watch as his throat bobs with a swallow, and I’m fascinated by this man who exudes confidence one moment, yet gets bashful the next. “Seems you're good at thinking on your feet, Ms. Spicymustard.”

I arch a brow as butterflies swoop through my stomach. “Oh, I’m good at quite a few things. A woman of many talents, if you will. But I see you have quite the foot fetish.” I wiggle my slippered toes between us. “I’ve watched you eye my shoes since the moment you walked in. Tell me, are you having dirty thoughts about my hairy feet right now, Mr. Trojan?”

The grin he had just moments ago fades and something darker, more dangerous, takes over his features. His eyes burn with intensity, making my breath catch.

Up until now, I’d been in control—or so I thought. But when Troy takes a step forward, eliminating the little space that was left between us and places the foil wrapper back in my hand, I realize I never had any control in the first place.

“Dirty thoughts?” he asks hoarsely, his hand clasping mine with the condom wrapper between our palms. “Sweetheart, you have no idea what kind of filthy thoughts are running through my head at this very moment. But as for your talents? You know that old saying . . .” His heated eyes hold me in place. “True talent isn’t just what you’re capable of, it’s knowing how to use it. So how about you show me?”

Desire lines the inside of my panties as my cheeks catch fire, the insinuation of his words practically making me tremble. My pulse, my heart, and my thoughts feel uncontrolled. Wild and frenzied.

I’ve never done something like this, never even considered it. Something so brazen, daring, and reckless with a complete stranger. It’s both terrifying and . . . thrilling. The rational part of my brain screams for me to slow down, to think this through, while a tiny, long-silenced part stirs awake, taking interest.

Am I actually considering saying yes ?

My instincts tell me I’m safe with him, even if the last episode I watched of Unsolved Mysteries warned me against it. But then again, how many serial killers have a body, biceps, and eyes like his? I’m really hoping the answer is zero.

I look up into his eyes, searching for danger or ill-intent, but all I see is desire, attraction, and perhaps a bit of vulnerability. His thumb traces circles over the pulse point on my wrist, awaiting my response, and my heart skips a beat.

God, I can feel myself coming to the conclusion, even as questions flood my brain.

What if I’m making the worst mistake of my life?

But what if it’s the best . . .?

I should say no. I’m a thirty-year-old single mom with a career, responsibilities, and new shoes to buy. What am I even thinking? Am I really going to throw caution to the wind for one potentially hot night of bliss?

But then again, when was the last time I did anything just for me? When was the last time I put my responsibilities aside and did something reckless? When was the last time I felt my heart thump this hard, telling me I was still alive?

And anyway, it isn’t like the man is asking me for a lifetime; he’s asking me for a night, a mere few hours. Something he looks like he needs, perhaps even more than me.

A temporary escape hatch from all our realities.

Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again . . .

With another shaky breath and smile that’s both nervous and sincere, my hand squeezes his, and I decide I won’t play it safe for once in my life. “Lead the way, Troy Trojan.”

* * *

My eyes fly open at the sound of a soft snore.

Where . . .? Where am I?

My gaze sifts through the darkness as my brain slowly awakens, trying to piece together the unfamiliar surroundings. A dim yellow light streams in from an adjacent room, casting a few shadows on the wall.

As my vision adjusts, I become acutely aware of the warm presence beside me—the source of the snoring.

I slowly turn my head to find Troy sprawled out on his chest. The soft light filtering in illuminates his bare muscular back, tapered torso, and the large biceps caging his head.

And the gorgeous dark golden locks of hair that alone have the ability to make my ovaries volunteer to home his babies.

And as I look at his hair, memories of the night rush through my brain—running my fingers through his hair and down his back, wrapping them around his shoulders, his biceps, and his . . .

The air is thick with a unique scent of cedarwood and honey. Something both earthy, sweet, and completely masculine. It certainly isn’t the kind of scent I’ve woken up to in . . . well, a long time.

I blink the sleep out of my eyes forcefully. And then, as quietly as possible, as to not rustle him awake, I lift onto my elbows, taking stock of the room.

There are clothes strewn everywhere—the plush dark chair in one corner, the carpeted floor, and?—

Is that my bra hanging atop the large television? Also, where are my hairy slippers? It looks like the aftermath of a particularly raucous game of strip-poker.

I can still feel his touch on my skin.

The way our bodies came together, hungry and needy. The way his lips and tongue devoured me, like he hadn’t eaten in days. The way his fingers left bruises around my waist and the backs of my thighs . . .

God, had I ever been consumed in such a way?

Like I was being relished from head to toe?

I can still feel him inside me, stretching and filling me exquisitely, even when I know he never will again.

A dull ache starts inside my chest as I realize that it’s all about to end—our tryst as Rina Spicymustard and Troy Trojan. And as ready and willing as I was to dive headfirst into this one night of unadulterated desire and lust with him just hours ago, I’m not as ready to walk away from him now.

Perhaps I could wake up in his arms in a few hours, and we could learn each other’s real names and careers? Perhaps this one night could develop into one day, one month, one year. Just something more.

I almost laugh out loud at my wayward thoughts. Of course this isn’t going to develop into anything more! I’m supposed to fly back home in a few hours, and he’s going back to . . . whatever he’s going back to.

Aside from the fact that he played my body like a fiddle, I don’t know anything “real” about him.

I’ll just have to chalk this up to an “interesting story”.

Except, what I don’t realize until that moment—the moment his phone lights up on the nightstand—is that my “interesting story” is about to grow legs. And not just any legs, but the kind that kicks you in the balls and leaves you keeled over.

My eyes draw to the name on the screen like a moth to a flame.

Ellie Jackson.

Now, in any other universe, a random name like Ellie Jackson wouldn’t mean anything. But in my universe, the one that landed me in Bull River, Colorado, that name was reserved for the bridezilla from hell. The same woman who’d berated me and had thrown her check in my face hours ago.

And just like that, with the subtlety of a brick to the face, the puzzle pieces lock into place. The familiar face I couldn’t quite place, the rumpled tux, the air of heartbreak that clung to him, even as he found purchase inside me . . .

It all clicks into place.

And then, as if my mind was veiling the truth from me this whole time, a memory surfaces: an enlarged photograph atop an easel at the entrance of her bridal suite. Ellie’s arms encircling her groom-to-be . . .

Who is none other than the man in bed with me now.